


Before Things Went Wrong

by tainry



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: M/M, Tentacles, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 14:12:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6082392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tainry/pseuds/tainry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dylan takes a drive to think about things, and is pleasantly fondled by his car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before Things Went Wrong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hellkitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/gifts).



> For a Flesh and Steel fill. I think specifically a present?

Quiet. Smooth. Professionally luxurious. The car was a wonder of engineering – and Dylan wasn’t thinking of the Germans. He’d seen the transformation; satellite to Mercedes. Beautiful…and fundamentally alien. 

The drive out of the city took less than half the usual time. Dylan regarded the green lights with amused skepticism. Everything was proceeding according to plan, on schedule, his way. The Witwicky kid channeled, under observation, dicked around a little because it was so easy. Settled finally where they wanted him. Carly was a bonus. Avenues there. Dylan would think about her more later. He had time. 

Windows rolled down as trees and fields took over from urban sprawl. An illusion, on this coast. The habitations of the masses were never far, no matter how some parts of the patchwork still looked like the 18th century. Soundwave was courteous. Solicitous, almost. Adjusting speed, temperature, seat angle, finding just the right music. Probably something in the nature of an experiment – make changes in the environment, observe the small, squishy mammal’s reactions. Sure, knowledge was power, but Dylan didn’t mind. Let the robots think they had ammunition.

It wasn’t as though Soundwave could read his mind.

Clouds feathered above the trees; white turning to gold. Afternoon aging toward evening. Dylan’s phone chimed. He glanced, ignored. It was Saturday. He was unplugging for a few hours. Well. Carly, Stephen, others could fend off the non-emergencies. Soundwave monitored, Dylan knew. Would tell him if there was something his master wanted handled, human-side. For now, though, it was him and this not-car. This beautiful machine.

He didn’t mind, what they wanted; not when they were so beautiful. Crystalline eyes and bright metal; all those sliding parts, worked to astronomically precise tolerances. They’d take what they wanted anyway and he’d rather keep on top of the pile. Might save a thing or two, if it (she) proved worth saving. He’d been taught well.

Dylan shifted in the plush seat. Even the scent of leather and new plastic and high-end electronics was right. He trailed fingertips over the hard curve of steering wheel. (Maintain the illusion. Even out here they passed other vehicles now and then.) The seat reconfigured slightly, cupping him.

Something warm and alive and very much not made of flesh touched his ankle. Yes. Experiments. His cock twitched, hardened. There had been massage girls and special chairs in Tokyo. This was better. Something fast and sleek zinged out of the dash, unfastened his trousers, tugged helpfully at his briefs, then retracted. He glanced down, excited by the exposure, the feel of wind on normally hidden parts. The touch at his ankle, firmed, stroked upward. God. He spread his legs, and the cable…cord…(tentacle…Jesus…) coiled against his thigh; heavier than it looked, hot now, blood temperature exactly; matching him heat for heat. Watching reactions. 

The heaviness moved on his thigh, caressing, purring. It wouldn’t use vibration on more tender parts – things would be over too quickly that way, and these things were such damn teases. Another cord moved under his shirt, warm and supple. He kept the one hand on the wheel, rubbing with his thumb, unconsciously echoing the rhythm of his breathing. A little faster, now. He let his other hand drop to the center console, to the side of the seat. He never got a reaction he could read, so he no longer put much effort into it, but the not-leather felt good in his grasp. Solid and utterly false. He spread his legs a little wider, slid down slightly in the seat, the tip of his cock bobbing toward the lower curve of the steering wheel. Almost touching.

Another thick cord looped up his leg, opening a petal-like mouth at its swollen end. Dylan mustered his best business face. It was an old separation, the inner and the outward; easy even under these circumstances. He was so vulnerable right now, to a metal thing made of sharp edges and remorseless intentions. The cord under his shirt stroked his neck.

The mouth-cord did the thing he knew it would. Swallowed him, engulfed him, petals stroking his balls, upper thighs, extending in licks across his lower belly; and the cord itself pulsed, squeezing and sucking, rippling wet little appendages within up and down his length – did things no tongue or pussy could ever do. He could smell something like oil, a hint of ozone. They crossed a bridge, the river beneath reflecting leaves and deepening sky. Dylan gripped the wheel, the seat, eyes open, seeing nothing. The feathery touches and firm clenching and strange, pulling movements grew more intense, tempo increased, sweat prickled his back, the cord under his shirt rubbed its segments over his nipples. 

Experiments. Reactions. Soundwave read his body, Dylan was sure. The timing was always perfect. Long, slow rise, never too long; the curve of a crest like the edge of a sword, bright and perfect; the last moment where everything died except the raw physical sensation, the helpless, divine contractions.

Dylan didn’t know what was done with the sample. Didn’t care, exactly. If they wanted to breed a new super-race using his template? There were worse things. Dylan grinned.


End file.
